


Dripping Wax (aka Thoughtless Semi-Fiction Oneshot/Drabble)

by Sawyer726



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gay, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 02:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18769654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sawyer726/pseuds/Sawyer726
Summary: Something I wrote at 3 am when I was tipsy and depressed





	Dripping Wax (aka Thoughtless Semi-Fiction Oneshot/Drabble)

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't fanfiction. Whomp whomp, if you comment be nice, drunk-me wrote this.

I could watch the light dance on the walls of his room forever, tracing my shaky fingers over the flickering swaths of colour coming from the candles peppered across the room. I remembered running my fingers over the wax the dripped from them, spilling down their sides and onto his rough, wooden furniture. It was atrocious, the most chaotic, beautiful mess I’d ever seen. No, that was him, truly, with his unruly mop of curls, haloed with gold in the sun; his paint-covered fingers, nail bitten down to stubs and covered in various hues; his harsh, mischievous eyes, the colour of fallen leaves in winter and lined with thick straight lashes. He was the most ethereal thing I’d ever seen, and yet he was so earthly, so base, his flowery speech tainted with crude words and common phrases.  
I loved him, once. How could I not, being constantly exposed to this enigma of a boy, both perplexing and intelligible all at the same time? He seemed to be a living contradiction, both near and far, light and deep, living and dead at once. I was determined to crack his code but at the same time, I never wanted an explanation for him, for his wonderful absurdity. I can’t, or rather shan’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. I never wanted to forget and yet was pressed to recall our time together, the happiest times I spent here.  
I closed my eyes, allowing them to flutter shut as I tried to relive the feeling of his lips against mine. Pressing my fingertips to my own, I could almost feel how soft they were, though nothing could mirror the bliss I felt when he kissed me, when I felt his parted lips twist into a wry grin against my own. I tried to latch onto the memory, to enshrine the moment in my mind, possibly forever, but the spell of the moment was broken by the rustle of the sheets in the bed across from mine. My eyes shot open and the sunny, gay feeling faded, leaving me alone, surrounded by four drab walls and rough wooden furniture, caked with wax from candles long burned out.  
I sat up in bed and looked over at the boy sleeping in the bed I used to call mine. He was as plain and depressing as everything else in this room, and he wasn’t mine. He wasn’t Wren. And yet he was in this room, his room, Wren’s room, my room? The room. I do not know if I could call it his, when everything that made it so had faded, much like my memories, despite how many nights like this I had spent trying to bring him back, draw his presence back into this room; back into my heart. But, it is the memories that we most cherish that are the most fickle and that we are most apt to forget, I supposed. They dull and fade and eventually disappear, like the photographs that he used to have littering these walls.  
Those are gone. Long gone, much like myself. Like Wren.  
He’s gone. And he’s never coming back. He’s gone and he took me with him. He took everything I had and made it beautiful and then he left.  
He left me. He left us.  
He ran. He ran away and took us with him, he took me with him and now I don’t know who this is. Who is this, I ask myself as I stare into the mirror across from me. I don’t remember how I got to be here, on the other side of the room, my hands pressed hard against the freezing touch of the glass, tears streaming down my moon pale skin. Who is this? Who am I, without him? He made me. He took my formless soul, like a mound of damp, watery grey clay and made me a masterpiece.  
I don’t recognize the boy in the mirror.  
I don’t recognize the boy in the bed, but wait, he’s gone.  
He’s gone, and then the bed is gone and there’s just me and the one bed and the cracked wax and the window.  
The window? It’s open, and the dark sky reminds me of his hair so I go.  
I need it. The sky, his hair, him, Wren.  
He’s gone and I need him and the sky is here and it looks like him, like the hair I used to card my fingers through in this room and I want to touch it.  
So I do.  
And then I’m falling, falling in and out of love, out of the window and into the sky.


End file.
